It's a Mad World
by Valiox
Summary: The story of how two beings from two opposite walks of life meet and survive in a world gone insane. M/M, Hunter x OC. Reviews feed my eternal hunger.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi friends! This story is actually getting views and favorites and such! Reading over the last chapter, I'm disappointed by how much I could have added into it to create more believable characters, with actual motives for taking actions. I also rushed a lot, so the personalities of the characters became very one dimensional, and toward the end of the piece, they lost a lot of the character I had previously established. I'm sorry for that.**

**Anywho, as the story goes on, I'll be trying to both further my own writing ability while telling a story, hopefully one you guys will enjoy. The actual story will start in this chapter, and I've decided that I would like to go backward along the timeline, before Boston started his journey to Kansas City, and before he met Cal (which is short for Calvin, in case anyone was curious). **

**For right now, the plan is to take the story through his journey (which won't be too long - I'm bad at writing solo soliloquy-like stories) to Kansas City, through his first encounter with Cal, through the one shot I posted previously, and...well, I can't reveal much else without spoiling my plans. I guess you'll just have to wait and see! **

**For the record, any resemblance in characters to Leapingspirit's story ****_Separated_**** is completely unintentional - I adore her as an author, and her story inspired me to write something similar, yet different.**

**Thank you for the support!**

* * *

The silence was all-encompassing, but Boston preferred it that way.

Although there was no sound aside from that of his own footsteps and the rattle of the shells in his pocket, Boston walked with determination set on his face. Though the eyes of the rotting dead stared at him from the sides of the highway, Boston tried to pay them no mind. He kept his ears perked and the old chrome shotgun he had found back in Atlanta at the ready.

It would have been a lie to suggest he had no fear. He had seen first hand the monsters that infected humans had become - lanky, tumor covered creatures with whip-like tongues that could asphyxiate a man in seconds, named Smokers for the noxious clouds their tumors gave off; grossly overweight men and women wearing clothes both saturated in vomit and much too small to cover their enlarged bellies; hunchbacked little beasts that scurried in dark corners, laughing madly as they physically rode survivors to their deaths.

The infected were masters of ambush, capable of laying in wait for hours for an unwary survivor to cross their path, and striking without mercy. Staying alert at all times and sleeping only when completely convinced of your personal safety was more than a precaution at this point, it was a code to live by. Letting your guard down was the equivalent of signing your own death warrant.

Boston had taken to travelling by day and taking refuge in nearby farmhouses at night. He had gotten into a close call or two with the infected residents of these homes, but never anything more than he could handle. He had once heard a Hunter call out with alarming proximity while sleeping in a barn outside Memphis, but nothing had come of it.

He had been careful to avoid cities ever since he left Atlanta after the first outbreak. High population centers meant more infected to fight, and Boston was a sitting duck without allies to back him up. What chance did he stand if a Smoker wrapped him up and dragged him away, or if a Hunter chose him to be its next meal? And so he had taken to using the back roads when travelling between interstates, avoiding major cities through Alabama and Mississippi. He had been lucky enough to find a working car on Route 63, a newer Ford Focus in surprisingly pleasant condition, which had gotten him all the way to the town of Carthage. From there, it was a straight shot north on the I-49.

And that's where it had all gone to shit.

Against his better instincts, Boston had elected to enter the town in search of supplies. He had found a community of survivors, who refused his requests for food and water, and even threatened to shoot him if he stayed in their town. Boston had been forced to continue on his way with nothing but a pocket full of ammunition and a weathered shotgun. A road sign at the city limits had indicated that it was 140 miles to Kansas City from Carthage. It would take him over two days to make it to Kansas City, where his one chance at survival lay: a military evacuation outpost, the last in the South.

He had been walking for seven or so hours, if the time on his looted wristwatch was to be believed. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Missouri summers were just as bad as those in Atlanta, which did nothing to improve the stench of sickness and rotting bodies. He impulsively checked the shotgun's chamber - locked and loaded, as always.

The heat wasn't so unbearable if he focused on walking. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. He settled into a rhythmic pattern. The thud of his Nikes on the asphalt droned out the sounds of idle insects, the slight breeze, and the screech of a Hunter.

Wait.

The cry sounded again as Boston frantically wrenched the handle of the closest sedan - mercifully unlocked, and flung himself in the back seat, shotgun raised and pointed at the window that faced the highway. He breathed deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself as the Hunter cried again.

But now that he was paying attention, the screech wasn't the warning cry of a beast ready to pounce. It was a whine, a cry for help. The beast was being attacked by someone or something, judging by the increasing urgency of the shrieks.

"Good," Boston thought. "Let it die. I hope it suffers." The encounter with the citizens of Carthage had hardened him. It had cemented in his mind that, in a world gone mad, compassion was a liability. You had to look after yourself first.

But the infected were all human at one point, he reminded himself. He was armed, there was food aplenty in the cars panicked families had left behind on the Interstate in their rush to get to safety. What did he have to lose by simply investigating the sounds? He pulled himself up out of the car and waited again for the sound. The most panicked screech yet came from a nearby brush, which was shaking with appropriate violence.

Boston crept over to the shrubbery and moved it aside quickly, pointing his shotgun inside, but the two fighters came flying out, embroiled in a heated battle. Boston gasped.

The combatants were both hunters, one taller and more muscular than the other. That one was clearly winning. It mounted its foe and dug its clawed fingers into its side, eliciting a cry from the smaller infected. Blood stained its white hoodie where it had just been punctured, which seemed to enrage it. It in turn stabbed two clawed fingers into the larger's neck, drawing forth a roar of pain and a spurt of blood that poured down onto the victim's navy blue hoodie, and momentarily throwing it off balance. The smaller used its size to squirm out from between its enemy's legs, and the two went at it again. Neither seemed to notice Boston, and if they did, neither cared.

Despite it being a feral beast that would have no reservations about devouring Boston, he had to admire the smaller's tenacity. He was suddenly filled with an inexplicable desire to help it out.

The pair had rolled closer now, the larger having resumed his former position on top of its rival, and was preparing to deliver the death blow. As it raised a clawed hand with triumph etched on his bruised and bloodied face, Boston crept up from behind and tore the hood off of its head. The Hunter screamed as the bright Missouri sun assaulted its sensitive eyes, and the smaller Hunter took full advantage. It landed a right hook that would have made Muhammad Ali proud, and the larger Hunter fell onto its back, hissing in pain. Boston took aim and pulled the trigger, painting the asphalt with the zombie's brains.

He swiftly pumped the shotgun and turned to the smaller Hunter, prepared for a fight, but the bloodstained infected made no move from its seated position. Its face was cast in shadow, but its head was cocked to the side curiously. 'You saved me,' it seemed to say. It shifted into a crouch, but made no motion to prepare for a pounce. It slowly walked over to Boston, who tensed appropriately but did not shoot, and reached into his jeans pocket, drawing out a little bag of fruit snacks he had been carrying in case of hunger. It sliced open the plastic with a claw tipped finger and plopped back down on its rear.

Boston was dumbfounded. He was on his way by foot to a city he had never thought he would visit, had saved a Hunter by blowing the head off of another Hunter, and said Hunter was now eating a package of surely melted fruit snacks at his feet. He laughed and shook his head, at both the situation and because the Hunter had made a disgusted noise and spit out a lemon fruit snack.

Could the world get any madder?


	2. Chapter 2

**For the record, consider the first chapter non-canon. There are a few things I would like to change without trying to retcon everything I established with the first one shot, so let's all just pretend the first chapter doesn't exist. :D**

* * *

The Hunter was paying more attention to the last fruit snack in the package than the human with a shotgun.

Boston was obviously disinclined to turn his back on an infected, especially one as cunning and deadly as a Hunter, but aside from the blood soaking his white hoodie, the thing looked no more harmless than a pet dog. He had seen that the beast was just as capable in a fight as his brethren, and almost as primal. But almost was the key word. Boston had saved the thing's life minutes prior. How could he shoot the thing in cold blood now? Boston could rationalize killing the infected as necessary to his survival, because he was acting in self defense; but killing something that had shown no sign of wanting to attack him was nothing short of murder.

Boston sighed and wiped the sweat off his face with his shirt. He guessed that it was around 3 P.M, and the temperature wasn't going down any time soon. He needed water, shelter, and a bath wouldn't hurt; two weeks of dirt, sweat and blood had accumulated in a highly unpleasant fashion. He needed to find a working car to avoid dying of heat stroke, he needed supplies to avoid dying of dehydration, and he needed to decide what to do with this Hunter.

Boston was never very good at making decisions that were foisted upon him.

"Alright, look," he said, looking down into the Hunter's face. It was still cast into shadow, showing nothing but a pair of striking grey eyes. "I'm not going to shoot you. I'm going to search these cars for one with the keys in, and you're going to go on your merry way. We're going to pretend this little chance meeting never happened. I'm pretty sure whatever you two were fighting over-" He nodded at the headless corpse a few feet away. "-is up for grabs now. Happy trails."

He turned to go, fully expecting to hear a warning cry, or a growl. But when he turned, the hunter remained seated, apparently unfazed by the unbearably hot asphalt. He cocked his head, while Boston shook his and walked away.

He checked car after car after car, swearing impatiently after each one yielded nothing. He found several shells compatible with his shotgun in the glove compartment of a Hummer, and pocketed them, but he found no working car. He considered searching the corpses lined up against the traffic barriers, as surely one must have the key; but he was not quite so desperate as to resort to looting decaying corpses.

After what felt like hours of looking up and down the highway, Boston found a Mazda Miata on the edge of the road with the key still in the ignition. The car was in pristine condition, aside from a very violent blood smear on the driver's side door, but that only served to make it look more badass. Boston grinned to himself as he lay the shotgun on the console and hopped in, twisting the key and sighing in relief as the engine roared to life, and the air conditioning system kicked in. He considered just sitting there and cooling off, but the car only had half a tank of fuel left. He reached over to buckle the seatbelt, and came face to face with the white hoodied Hunter in the passenger's seat.

Boston yelped in surprise, instinctively reaching for the gun, but the Hunter was too fast. He snatched it up and grinned toothily. "Mine," he said in a low, gravelly voice, causing Boston to flinch again.

"You can...talk?" Boston inquired, shocked, and the Hunter shrugged. "Little," he growled out with a bit of difficulty.

Boston wanted to force him out, to just get on the road and make it to Kansas City before the evacuation deadline, but the Hunter had his gun, and he was outmatched in a contest of brute strength. He tore his eyes away from the Hunter's piercing gray gaze, white knuckling the steering wheel. He shifted the car into gear and hit the accelerator. Boston knew he should have kept driving north on the I-49, but there was a very deadly and very mischievous beast in the front seat. He had decided to find a motel before he had even started driving.

Somewhere along the way, Boston allowed his inhibitions and fear to dissipate a little. If the beast wanted to kill him, he had had ample opportunities to do so. Maybe the infected were more human than CEDA let on, he thought. He attempted to make small talk with the Hunter, who answered as best he could with his limited vocabulary.

"Well, if we're going to be together for a bit longer at least," Boston asked, as they flew past a ransacked Burger King. "I should know your name. Can you say it?"

The Hunter frowned, scrunching up his face as if trying to remember. "Cal." He replied, the words rolling out of his throat in a partial growl.

"I like that," Boston said, half smiling. "It fits you well." He could have sworn Cal blushed, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

It was nearing 6 P.M when Boston pulled into a Motel 6 about an hour from the Kansas City city limits. He hadn't slept in a few days, and the combination of his stench and Cal's putrid odor of dried blood and other filth was enough to make Boston gag. He used the butt of his shotgun to smash the door of the first room he found, throwing silent prayers to the sky that the motel had running water. It did, he discovered, and in a display of divine mercy, both hot and cold water were flowing. Cal, who had slunk in at Boston's heels, clearly unused to being indoors, sank down on the pristine, white-blanketed bed as Boston emerged from the bathroom.

"Alright, we both smell like death. I think you need a bath more than I do, so you'll have to go first. Can you take the hoodie off for me?"

The Hunter shook his head vehemently, clutching his blood-stained hood with both clawed hands. "Like dark," he croaked. "Light hurt."

Boston rolled his eyes. He imagined this was how parents felt when attempting to coax small children into bathing. He drew the blinds anyway, throwing the room into darkness. "There. Now we need to take the jacket off." He pried the Hunter's hands off his head gently, and slowly pulled the hood down. The Hunter looked up, the eyes that had been so bright and interested on the highway now filled with anxiety. Boston was reminded again of a small child. Cal patted the top of his head of black hair, mewling.

Gently and awkwardly muttering reassurances, Boston unzipped the jacket and allowed the Hunter to reluctantly remove his blood-covered undershirt, and Boston tossed both onto the bed. He would clean them later. He took Cal gingerly by the wrist and led him into the bathroom, where the bath had already been drawn. For a Motel 6, the bathroom was surprisingly luxurious. The polished ceramic of the bathtub, and the counter opposite it, slightly reflected the light filtering in from the window over the tub.

Boston turned to look at the Hunter, who had made no attempt to flee, but had his head turned so that the light couldn't blind him. He could see the Hunter clearly for the first time, and although Boston hated to say it, Cal looked..._good. _His complexion wasn't quite as full as it would have been if he had been human, but he was far from pale. He was fit, as Boston assumed most Hunters were, with clearly framed abdominal muscles and toned biceps. His raven hair framed his round face quite nicely, but he had a long cut from his ear to the middle of his cheek, and there were four puncture wounds on his right side where the other Hunter had stabbed him, but those were already in the process of healing; the infected had a much faster regenerative ability.

Cal reluctantly sat on the edge of the tub, per Boston's request, and sat silently as his Vans and (filthy) socks were pulled off his feet. He wriggled his clawed toes nervously as Boston stood. He cocked his head as the human blushed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Alright," Boston said. "I'm just going to come out with it. Your pants have to come off."

The Hunter raised an eyebrow and gave a tiny smile. Boston blushed furiously and quickly turned around, turning back once he heard the sound of jeans rustling and the sound of water being disturbed. Cal was pouting with his arms crossed. The corner of Boston's mouth turned up as he was reminded once again of an angry child.

The next thirty minutes were spent with a mixture of whining by Cal and exasperated curses by Boston, and much splashing of water over the edges of the bathtub, but when the door to the bathroom opened, a very raw and fresh-smelling Hunter waddled across the room, sinking onto the bed gingerly. A very wet and exhausted Boston emerged a minute later, having pulled the plug and sent the now cold and dark brown water down the drain.

He tossed Cal his underwear and old, faded jeans. Boston turned while the Hunter dropped his towel and dressed. The blood-stained shirt and hoodie would have to go, that much Boston knew. The washing machine in the laundry room didn't work, and he had neither the time nor patience to wash the clothes by hand. If his counting was correct, the evacuation was in two days, and he wanted to make it to Kansas City at least a day in advance in case anything went wrong. Of course, there was now the matter of the Hunter he was travelling with. He had only known the beast for a few hours, but riding with him in a convertible during a zombie apocalypse, not to mention bathing him, had caused Boston to form somewhat of an attachment to Cal - or at least, the desire to not have him shot by the military.

"We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it," He said aloud, sighing as the Hunter shot him a hurt look. He was still angry about being forced to bathe. At least he no longer smelled like an abandoned slaughterhouse, Boston thought, returning to the bathroom and refilling the tub to clean himself as well.

As he wrapped a towel around his waist afterward, Boston saw himself in the mirror for the first time since Atlanta. His normally short and spiky blond hair had grown shaggy. There were dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he looked generally unkempt, but he had been lucky enough to have limited contact with the infected during his trip across the country. His plan of taking the least populated route possible had paid off in more ways than one, allowing him to conserve ammunition and medical supplies, as well as keeping him relatively unscathed aside from a few cuts or bruises.

He dressed and returned to the bedroom, where Cal was still shirtless and brooding.

"I know, you want your jacket. I'm going to find you a new one, I swear. Maybe this motel has a gift shop or something-"

There was a bang on the door, followed by two more, and what sounded like scratching. A throaty growl came from behind the door, almost like a question. Cal fired another growl back, his face contorted into a feral expression. There was a pause, and the Hunter behind the door seemed to chuckle. Then there was silence. Boston crossed the room quickly, grabbing the Remington off of the dresser in the corner and giving it a pump. "What was that? Did it say something?" He asked quietly.

"Brother," Cal snarled. He looked frightening. The muscles in his back rippled as he moved, and the curtain of dark hair that hung over his face made his grey eyes look even more threatening. "Want eat. He wait."

Boston should have been scared. He should have been nervous, he should have been looking for a way to get out of there, to get to the car and to floor it. But he was holding a weapon he could have never imagined using two months ago. He was travelling to a strange city in a stolen car, currently with one of the very creatures he was trying to escape. The time for fear had passed. It was time to act.

"He's waiting for me, then?" Boston steeled himself but found he needed no further steeling. "Let's give him what he wants."

* * *

**I finally wrote a chapter that was longer than two thousand words! Thanks for staying with me this far, reviews are appreciated and loved! **


	3. Chapter 3

As he edged his way toward the door, Remington at the ready, Boston threw a glance over his shoulder at Cal. The bare-chested Hunter had quickly put his shoes on, and sat crouched on the floor, waiting. Boston's fingers had barely brushed the brass doorknob when the door flew open with a bang and a Hunter clothed in a dark blue hoodie came soaring over the threshold. Boston had barely been able to duck out of the way in time, and the intruder took a passing slash at him as it flew by. There was a howl and a yelp as Cal leaped at his enemy, catching him in the midsection and driving him into the carpet.

"_Mine!_" the shirtless hunter screamed in the face of his adversary. "No touch!" He punched the feral Hunter straight in the center of its face, and the room echoed with the nasty sound of its nose breaking. Cal grabbed the head of his whimpering foe and twisted it sharply to the side. A second, sickening crack sounded out and the intruder moved no more.

If it hadn't yet cemented in Boston's mind that Cal, now carefully unzipping and peeling the jacket off the other Hunter, was a merciless killing machine, there was now no further doubt. He let the shotgun fall to his side, shaking as his adrenaline high wore off. Over the short course of the drive to the motel and bathing him, Boston had begun to forget that Cal was just as deadly as any of the other infected.

The new jacket, strangely immaculate aside from a few small tears, fit the Hunter nicely. The slain Hunter was a few inches taller than Cal was, but it was a meaningless difference. Cal had protection from light now, and would be useful if a daytime conflict with the infected occurred.

But could Cal really be trusted? Boston had only been around the Hunter for a few, short hours. He had seen him brutally kill a stunned Hunter and mortally wound another. Who's to say that wouldn't happen to Boston? Did Cal's loyalty lie with the human he had just met, or with the infected, whom he had been around for God knows how long?

"Why haven't you killed me?" Boston inquired, his voice cracking. He wanted to believe he had a new ally, but Cal was infected. It wasn't in their nature to work together with others, not to mention working with a human.

The Hunter looked up from inspecting a hole in his sleeve. "Friend," he growled after a moment of thought. "Kill not. Protect." He had a bit of difficulty with vocalizing the two-syllable word, but he shrugged indifferently and returned to inspecting his prize. Boston sighed and supposed he would just have to trust the Hunter. He didn't have a choice in the matter, because the Hunter seemed intent on staying with him. He wondered what the Hunter would do when Boston was evacuated, but he had more pressing matters at the moment: the corpse's foul odor had forced Boston to pull his shirt over his face to keep from gagging. Cal looked up and rolled his eyes at Boston's weak stomach. He grabbed the body by the wrist and dragged it roughly over the threshold. He tossed the filthy corpse into a nearby supply closet like a ragdoll. The Hunter sniffed indifferently and strolled back into the room, sitting cross legged on the carpet and busying himself with comparing the material of his old, bloodied hoodie and his new one.

Boston shut the door, crossed the room and peeked between the blinds. The sun was setting, and the evacuation wasn't supposed to take place until two days from now, if he had kept track of the date correctly. He hadn't had a proper sleep in weeks and it was starting to get to his head.

"Cal," he said, sinking onto the bed as the Hunter looked up, "I'm going to bed. We're heading for the city in the morning, and I'd really like an actual bed tonight, so if you don't mind sleeping on the floor, I'm sure we can find an extra blanket -"

Cal pounced, pulling off his shoes in mid-flight and landing hard on the opposite side of the bed. Boston's face perfectly matched the stains on the white jacket as the Hunter curled up into a ball against him. It was a security mechanism, surely, for Hunters to stay close together while sleeping. It was probably to allow them to stay hidden, Boston reasoned. Even so, he couldn't stop his mind from racing as he closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.

* * *

**A _pitifully_ short chapter, I know, but I just wanted to get something out before the weekend hit. I'm planning a big chapter, and I wanted a nice segue from evening to night that shows how Boston's feelings are just starting to blossom. I know, I'm rushing things unnaturally quickly, but it's because I'm terribly impatient. Reviews are read, thought over, and very much appreciated - if you have story ideas, feel free to include them! I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, not really planning more than one chapter at a time. Thanks again guys!**


	4. Chapter 4

Boston was the first to wake up the next morning. He rolled out of bed quickly, remembering who was curled up next to him. He tossed the Hunter's shoes on the bed and shouldered the shotgun he had lain on the floor next to the bed last night. Meanwhile, the large lump under the covers continued to rise and fall steadily, showing no sign of waking up. Boston tried cleared his throat, loudly. He tried poking the Hunter with his foot. He finally sighed, strolled over to the window, and yanked the cord that sent the blinds skyward. The room filled with a burst of intense morning sunlight and Cal yowled in surprise when the blanket was pulled from his head. The Hunter protested groggily as Boston rechecked their supplies; as was the usual for Boston, they had nothing.

Boston wasn't sure how long Hunters could go without feeling hunger, but he himself needed a meal. He hadn't eaten properly in about a week, far too occupied with covering as much distance as possible in order to get to Kansas City on time. As if in response, his stomach growled loudly enough that Cal looked up from putting his shoes on.

Boston's face dusted pink and he busied himself with checking nearby rooms for any source of food. His search yielded two sleeves of crackers, a warm bottle of water, a pistol with a full magazine, and a package of hot dogs that had surely gone bad, but Cal set to devouring them anyway. Boston hoped the infected had stronger immune systems, because he definitely did not feel like dealing with Hunter diarrhea. He could stave off hunger with crackers, and the water would be nice for the road, but he hoped the military had more desirable food in Kansas City.

The two hit the road at around 10 A.M, if Boston guessed correctly. The sun hadn't yet reached its peak point in the sky and the temperature hadn't risen uncomfortably high. Cal kept his head down as they drove, the sun still being much too bright for his light-sensitive eyes. Even so, he kept glancing at the Remington laid across the console between them, as if afraid it would rear up and shoot him on its own accord. Boston kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the rotting bodies on the side of the highway and swerving carefully around abandoned cars. The two drove in silence, the atmosphere in the car filled with mingled anticipation and anxiety.

As he swerved recklessly to avoid a confused Smoker, Boston couldn't help but wonder about the future of the Hunter beside him. The two were allies, if not budding friends, and Boston didn't want to see the Hunter shot dead by soldiers. However, he had seen enough Animal Planet to know that the smell of prolonged human contact was often grounds for animals to be exiled from their packs. The infected wouldn't accept Cal back now, and it was doubtful that he would want to. The Hunter was everything the infected were not: he was protective and friendly, and had a mischievous sense of humor. He had been more subdued this morning, but Boston attributed it to hunger, or the contagiousness of Boston's aura of anxiety.

They were a mile outside the city limits when Cal's head shot up. He immediately winced as the light hit his eyes, but he let out a warning screech that caused Boston to jump.

"What's the-" was all he had time to say before a Charger came blazing out from behind an overturned SUV, barely missing the Miata as it passed. Boston fumbled for the pistol on the dash and fired two shots at the beast behind them, one striking it in the leg and causing it to fall with a shout. As Boston turned around, another elephantine roar echoed across the highway and a second Charger appeared from out of nowhere, slamming into the driver's side door and driving the car off the road.

Boston shrieked in pain as his left arm was crushed between the collapsed door and his body. The agony was so intense he couldn't see straight, but he aimed the pistol as best he could up at the Charger, who was still attempting to shunt the car off the road, and fired. The massive beast collapsed but the damage was done: Boston's arm was fractured, if not broken, and the impact had knocked the car's engine out. The ordeal was far from over, though. He heard a hacking cough and a horrible gurgling, squealing noise. This was an ambush.

He needed to get out of the car, but his arm was on fire. He heard the Horde approaching, and craned his neck to look at Cal. The Hunter's seatbelt had been slashed apart and he was gone. The betrayal stung worse than his shattered arm, but it filled him with resolve. He had come too far to give up now. He may die, but he was taking as many of these creatures down with him.

He sat up. The infected horde, led by a Smoker and a Spitter, was charging from the woods to the west. He grabbed the shotgun, which had rolled into the floorboard when the Charger hit, with his good arm, balanced it on the edge of the crumpled door, and fired. He squeezed the trigger over and over, each blast felling several infected. The Spitter was hit in the chest and a torrent of burning acid burst forth, covering nearby infected. Those hit fell to the ground screeching and crying out as the acid eroded their flesh.

For every infected that went down, there were three more that were angrier and quicker. As Boston struggled to fit more shells in the emptied gun, he felt a slick, muscular appendage wrap around his neck. The Smoker pulled him over the car door, cutting him on the sharp metal and slamming him onto the ground, injured arm first. Boston screamed so hard his voice broke and faded. He tried to call for Cal, but the tongue tightened around his airway. The Smoker continued to reel him in, through the crowd of common infected that kicked and stomped and scratched at Boston's helpless body. The pain was too much. His vision began to blur and fade. He was going to die here, in the middle of the highway. Alone.

The blows continued to land on his unprotected body, but he no longer felt it. The Smoker had reeled him in fully now and looked down upon him with its disgusting visage, but Boston no longer cared. He was going home, away from the infected, away from the ruined world. Away from disease and death and bullets. Away from Cal.

Away from Cal.

Regret surged through him. He was leaving Cal behind, the Hunter he had known for such a short time but who had been a more dependable ally than any human could have been. He was leaving him behind in a world where mercy and compassion no longer had a place. He vaguely heard the sound of a Hunter's screech and the roar of the infected. He felt the pressure around his neck release and the ground beneath his back fall away. A pleasant hum echoed through his battered skull as he floated through space and conscious thought slipped away.

* * *

Boston found himself floating somewhere between life and death. His comatose sleep was hounded by nightmares and horrors. He saw a vivid vision of the Smoker that had attacked him, its whiplike tongue snaking around his midsection and slamming him into the earth over and over. He saw his own corpse, jaw slack and eyes dull, laying lifeless with his limbs twisted in unnatural directions. But at some point, the nightmares shifted and changed. He saw no death, nor blood, nor bullets or illness.

He saw a man, no more than twenty-one years old. He was sitting on a chair in a dark room, impossibly dark, illuminated so specifically against the inky blackness that the shadows appeared to grab at him. He appeared to be struggling against the darkness, his face contorted in concentration, trying to keep the shadowy hands from pulling him away. He seemed to look up at Boston. His eyes were steely gray, contrasting with his long, black hair. When he spoke, his eyes filled with determination, resolve, and more than a little desperation.

_"I need you."_

* * *

Boston's eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the gentle moonlight that filled the room through the drawn curtains. Curled up like a cat at the end of the bed lay Cal, his hoodie torn in some places but still relatively intact, breathing softly. Boston tried to speak, to signal the Hunter that he was awake, but his throat seared. He looked around, not recognizing where he was. It looked like an old fashioned log cabin. The air was cold, even through the layers of blankets on top of him, and he could see and hear a fireplace crackling merrily at the opposite end of the bedroom. The walls were adorned with pictures of a family Boston had never seen before.

"So. You're awake, I see."

Boston flinched violently at the slightly raspy voice, a motion that made his various wounds protest. He wordlessly groaned in pain and looked over to the doorway.

The Smoker appeared to stand a few inches taller than Boston, roughly 6'1, if he had to estimate, and very lean. He was wearing an unzipped wool bomber jacket and black ski pants, along with some heavy leather boots. His dark-brown hair was flecked with snow, and the fireplace threw shadows over his angular and oddly tumor-free face. The infected's long tongue hung to his waist, and it twitched as he walked into the room.

Boston reflexively reached for the Remington, but realized it was probably gone with the car. He felt naked without his ever-present shotgun, especially in the presence of an infected. The movement also aggravated his bad arm, and he gave a broken shriek, which in turn burned his throat. The Smoker raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Yeah, you're beat up pretty bad. Lucky for you, this place has some old medical encyclopedias that were pretty helpful in putting your pieces back together."

Boston's eyes swept over his battered body. His injured left arm was held tightly in a makeshift splint formed from two planks of wood. His other, more superficial wounds had been treated and seemed to have healed, aside from a few stray bruises. The Smoker walked over to his bedside and pulled a flask from a pocket on the front of his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the liquid inside into Boston's mouth. It tasted like honey. He didn't trust the Smoker, but Cal seemed to, or else one of the two infected wouldn't be there.

Once he had drunk an amount of liquid deemed appropriate by the Smoker, Boston tried to speak again. It didn't hurt as badly, but his voice still came out broken and croaky. "How...long...?"

The Smoker crossed the room and pulled the curtains open, allowing a bit more light into the room. The snow outside was falling gently and piling up on the windowsill.

"Two and a half weeks, I think." Boston's mouth fell open and his heart dropped. "And to answer your next series of questions, yes, you missed the Kansas City evac, yes, your friend here is fine, you're in a cabin outside Jackson, Wyoming, I drove you here on the brink of death with your Hunter pal in hysterics, and my name is Tom. I've been wiping your ass and getting you to eat and drink while fading in and out of consciousness for the past twenty or so days while this Hunter has refused to leave this room. He smells like the backstage area of a circus and I can't get him to shower. Thus concludes our formal introduction, sir." He bowed dramatically. "Feel like telling me your name? Or is the abyss calling again?"

"Boston," the human croaked, astonished, ashamed and grateful that the Smoker had done all that seemingly out of compassion. "That's...Cal." He pointed with his good arm at the over-sized navy blue cat at the end of the bed, still asleep. "Oh, it has a name." Tom said sarcastically. "I was just going to call it Fido. And to answer your next question, you impertinent wretch," he jabbed viciously but with no real venom, "This is my cabin. Well, it was my family's. Before they all died and I took it. Best thing about this whole zombie apocalypse bullshit? Nobody has time to foreclose on a cabin in the mountains of Wyoming." He snorted and his tongue quivered. He crossed his arms and shot the appendage out, giving the sleeping Cal a sharp jab with the tongue. The Hunter attempted to roll into a defensive crouch, ready to pounce, but went the wrong way and rolled off the end of the bed with a yelp. Tom put his hand over his face and sighed. "I decide to do some good and save some people, and just my luck, I get the slow-witted ones. Honestly..."

As Cal got up, growling indignantly, his steel eyes locked with Cal's green ones. Boston was reminded suddenly of the man in his dream, the one who was being slowly torn apart by the shadows. The Hunter grinned at him with tired relief and crawled slowly into the bed next to him. Boston's face reddened when the Hunter looked up, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Happy...you're okay." It was the most he had spoken in a while, and Boston got the impression that he had been practicing that line for a while. He smiled down at his friend, his companion. It was the first time since meeting each other that they had finally been somewhat stress-free.

"And don't you two go and have the audacity to screw in there! I'm _not_ washing those damned sheets in ten degree weather!" Tom shouted from the main room.

Boston blushed crimson and Cal snickered. Maybe things would work out after all.

* * *

**And you thought he was going to get to Kansas City! BAM! CURVEBALL.**

**The more I write this, the more anxious I get that somebody is going to compare my story unfavorably with Leapingspirit's Separated. I know they're similar, but I'm trying to make my story as unique as possible...however that works out.**

**I also completed this chapter way ahead of the deadline I set for myself. Now I can finally plan the rest of the story out, and relax for a little bit.**

**Thank you guys so much for the support. Please review if you can spare the time, I feed on them. **


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days passed uneventfully. The infection had not yet spread to Jackson, Tom informed his guests, and so the townspeople, while still cordial, were exhausted and highly suspicious of outsiders. The small town was tight-knit and devoted to protecting the community from the infected, so every precaution was being taken to prevent an outbreak. The military had been on a constant retreat ever since Kansas City, Tom had said. The infection was the ultimate biological weapon that the military was not prepared for, and the psychological impact of having to watch over your shoulder every night, not knowing if one of your trusted comrades would rip out your throat while you slept, was devastating. Without the hope of being rescued or supplied, the residents of Jackson were typically forced to turn away outside visitors or survivors; as much as the people hated it, Tom said, the number one priority in Jackson, Wyoming was looking after your own lot.

"Naturally," Tom said one night, holding an old novel carefully with his tongue and flipping through it idly with his hand. "I'm not very welcome down there. The few times I've needed to go down for supplies or what have you, I've had to disguise myself." Cal, sitting on the rug near the fireplace, raised an eyebrow. "Scarves. A lot of scarves."

Boston laughed lightly, hastily reaching over to adjust the splint on his arm when Cal looked up. The fire reflected in the Hunter's eyes made him look especially fierce. "Tom, I appreciate your hospitality and all, but I have a few more questions to ask you, if you don't mind." The Smoker chewed the inside of his cheek in thought, quite a feat considering the lengthy tongue protruding from his mouth, and nodded the affirmative. "How did you learn to speak? I was surprised enough when I first heard Cal speak small words, and you're...well, more eloquent than I am."

Tom didn't glance up, continuing to skim through the novel. "The infection shows more strongly in some than it does in others. I, for example, have a very weak strain of the Smoker infection. As you can see, I'm not covered with tumors, I don't cough and hack all over the place, and I'm not filled with the insatiable desire to murder things. I retained my mind and most of my body. I never forgot how to speak, so I didn't have to relearn. On the other hand, the Hunter strain is a lot more pervading." He glanced sideways at Cal, who was listening intently. "The Hunter strain causes massive unseen physical and mental changes. A Hunter's muscles, especially in the legs, overdevelop. They build up excess energy. Excess energy results in a breakdown of the Hunter's mental state as the primal urge to kill clashes with the need to be active. The Hunter succumbs to the primal thoughts that the infection brings to the surface."

Boston's eyebrows furrowed. "But Cal's not like that at all. He's been friendly the entire time we've known each other, you've seen that."

Tom glanced briefly at Boston with his eyebrows raised, then started reading again. "When you two are forced into a fight, does he become a lethal killing machine? A feral beast willing to resort to any level of violence to keep you both safe?" Cal looked down, almost shamefully, and ran his claw-tipped fingers over the rug abashedly.

"He isn't a beast," Boston said firmly, consciously keeping his eyes off Cal's when the Hunter's head perked up. "He's just protective. He does what he can to keep us safe. I would do the same thing. But with a gun, I guess."

Tom sighed and shut the book. "I'm not debating that. My point is that he's ruthless. All Hunters are. He's would drown you in blood to keep you safe. You two have only known each other for three weeks and you're practically inseparable. All I'm saying is that you should remember what he is. That isn't derogatory," he said quickly as both Boston and Cal moved to interrupt. "But he's a Hunter. He needs to stay active. This cabin, while isolated and safe from the infected or any wandering survivors, has got to be hell on Cal. Hunters aren't made to be inactive for three weeks."

Cal growled. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Tom deadpanned. "I see you in here every night, sitting in front of the fire, growling. Pacing the floor, peeking out windows. You need to get out of here for a while. Take a walk. Jump around, climb some trees. We're in the mountains, you'll be safe, as long as you don't start screeching like a goddamned banshee. Off with you."

Cal grumbled and cast an resentful look at the Smoker, but acquiesced. He emerged from a guest bedroom a few minutes later dressed in a camouflage parka, some thick jeans and some waterproof boots. He cast a glance at both of them, which Boston avoided, and walked out the front door.

"Now then," the Smoker began, grimacing as a blast of cold air from outside hit him. He looked Boston in the face and his eyes narrowed. It wasn't an accusatory look, but it implied that something unpleasant was about to be said. "About you and Cal. That...thing you two have going on."

Boston snorted. "Thing? What thing? Friendship? Have you forgotten what that feels like, Tom?" It was a brave attempt at humor and a valiant attempt to jab at the Smoker that constantly lorded his intellect over everyone else.

The Smoker rolled his eyes. "You really are clueless, aren't you? Fine by me. Forget I said anything."

Boston tried to keep smiling, but his expression gave way to confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Tom looked up, the characteristic twinkle in his eyes that told Boston he was being mocked. "It isn't my place to meddle in the affairs of others. You and Cal can sort out your own relationship problems, I have faith in the two of you." He grabbed the old novel back off of the couch and began pretending to read.

Boston stared at him incredulously. "That hasn't stopped you before. Will you just tell me what you meant by that? Have you already talked to Cal about this? Oh, screw it. You're impossible." He threw his free arm into the air in a show of exasperation and sat back. What did the Smoker mean by a 'thing' between them? And, he considered, why did the Hunter keep looking at him so guiltily? Unless...

His face heated up before he could try and stop it.

"I'm going out," Boston announced suddenly, rising to his feet. He walked quickly into his bedroom and carefully dressed in winter apparel, minding his splint.

"Where are you going?" Tom called from the other room, his tone of voice implying that he knew exactly where the human was going.

"I'm following your advice, of course." Boston said as he wrenched the door open and stepped out into the falling snow. "You asshole." He muttered under his breath as the Smoker's roaring laughter was silenced by the door slamming shut.

* * *

**The author of this story is a lazy asshole who can't appreciate his readers. I'm terribly sorry, guys. I've been slacking off. The good news, though, is that I actually have a plan for the next few chapters of this story. No more making shit up as I go along. Maybe there'll be an actual plot now, instead of random time skips! Hooray!**

**This chapter was mainly to provide some background information for the world I've created, as well as provide some reasoning for the behavior of the infected, etc. It was also to introduce the actual romance part of this goddamned story, which I've been waiting to write forever. I've written the word "blush" or euphemisms *so* many times already. It's getting kind of annoying.**

**Keep insulin on hand for the next chapter, just warning you now. It's going to be sweet. Review if you have the time, please! I love hearing good things! Or bad things. I don't discriminate. **


	6. Chapter 6

The cabin was located in a clearing in the middle of the woods. It provided heavy coverage from wandering animals or the occasional adventurous human, but the even tree coverage on all sides made the task of tracking Cal a little more difficult. The Hunter's prints had been somewhat covered by the still-falling snow, but were easy enough to follow. The way they abruptly stopped after about ten feet, however, made it clear that Cal had chosen to leap instead of walking or running.

Boston groaned inwardly and pulled his parka tighter around himself, shivering. The snow had lightened up from the oppressive November blizzard it had been in days prior, but the temperature remained bone-chillingly low. He longed to resume his place in the armchair by the fire, watching Tom and Cal bicker between themselves. In the short time they had been together, the three had formed a bond. Tom had saved their lives and Boston intended to return the favor if the opportunity ever arose.

Boston chewed his rapidly chapping bottom lip in thought. The forest was too dense to search in, and calling the Hunter's name would surely draw attention to himself, and by association, the cabin. He scanned the treetops for an unnatural rustle, the flash of a white parka. Nothing moved. He would have to go in.

He edged his way around and between trees for a few minutes, occasionally catching his boots on roots or his parka on branches, repeatedly stopping and scanning the surrounding area for any sign that the Hunter had been there. He journeyed further into the woods. He heard nothing except the crunch of the snow under his boots, and the frigid air was beginning to numb his cheeks, but he willed himself forward.

He was in far now. He found himself in another clearing, smaller than the one surrounding the cabin. Frost-covered trees formed a ring around him, almost like an arena. Boston had been trudging through the deepening snow for a fair amount of time and was beginning to feel desperate. He was considering turning back when he heard a violent rustle in the trees across the clearing.

"Cal?" he called. A pained shriek came from the brush and made Boston jump. The voice was higher than Cal's, but had the raspy, gravelly sound that Boston had come to associate with Hunters. Sure enough, as Boston opened his mouth to call for Cal again, a body flew out from the bushes and landed a few feet in front of Boston, whimpering.

Even without its battle wounds, the Hunter would have been irrevocably close to death anyway. It was clothed in a light, threadbare, lime green coat that hung off its emaciated frame, and a tattered pair of loose fitting jeans covered in holes and wicked slashes. Its flesh was turning blue where it wasn't yellowed with bruises. A fresh but shallow cut ran across its throat, clean enough that it appeared to be deliberately non-fatal. It tried desperately to scurry away, but a much stronger and violent screech echoed across the clearing, and the Hunter froze, its eyes wide with terror. A moment of silence passed and the brush opened again.

Cal flew forward in a blur of white, looking ghostly against the snow. He landed on all fours at the other Hunter's side, and let out a bark that caused the pitiful creature to squeal and flail about in a desperate attempt to get away from his attacker. Neither appeared to notice Boston's presence, and the human was reminded of Tom's words that had planted themselves as seeds of doubt and worry in his mind:

_"All I'm saying is that you should remember what he is."_

Cal leaped forward with another screech and landed hard on his prey's chest. Boston heard a loud snap and the smaller Hunter yowled in pain. It put up its blunt-clawed and dirty hands to try and stop the attack, but his attacker would have none of it. Cal raised both hands and began mauling his prey viciously; he slashed at every inch of exposed flesh he could, and when it was all flayed and bleeding, he dug his claws into the skimpy coat of his enemy and tore it open, exposing the battered body underneath. Every strike was deliberate and calculated within the chaos of the attack. It was clear that Cal was savoring the killing, never cutting deep enough to kill, only to maim. The emaciated Hunter's struggles became more and more feeble as the surrounding snow was painted red with its blood, and it eventually grew still.

Cal screamed in frustration as his the life of his prey slipped away. Boston watched his shoulders heave as the Hunter looked down upon his hands, stained red with blood and gore. His frenzy incomplete, his bloodlust unsatisfied, the Hunter looked around the snowy glade and his cold, grey eyes settled on Boston.

Cal rolled off the decimated carcass and settled into a low crouch, growling threateningly, eyes locked onto Boston as the human began to slowly back away. Boston could see the Hunter's mind working, eyes flicking over Boston's body, looking for the softest bits of flesh to strike at, for the veins that would bleed out slowly or quickly. Boston's back hit a tree and the Hunter edged forward. He was preparing to pounce.

Boston put his hands up to defend himself and barely had time to duck out of the way before Cal leaped, slamming into the tree shoulder first with what should have been enough force to dislocate the joint. To Boston's horror and amazement, however, Cal was on his feet less than a second after the impact, and pounced again. This time it was a perfect shot, landing hard on Boston's chest and forcing the air out of him.

Up close, Boston could see Cal's eyes clearly. They were clouded over, lost in bloodlust, completely unlike the clear, hard grey Boston had come to associate with the Hunter. He froze as the Hunter began to smell him. Cal sniffed down Boston's front and around his neck, slowing down at the jugular vein. He ghosted over the sensitive and cold skin with his sharp teeth, not as a tease, but as a threat. _I can kill you whenever I want, and you can't stop me. _Boston shivered and tried to speak, but had to cry out in pain when his attacker grabbed the wrist of his bad arm and pinned it to the ground, forcing the arm out straight. The improvised splint bit into his skin and the Hunter positioned himself, poised to strike at the undefended bicep. As he dove, Boston, desperately hoping that his friend wouldn't, couldn't do this, shouted, "Cal!"

The Hunter froze like a statue. His face blanked, and though the still-exposed fangs made Boston deliberate trying to free himself, he could clearly see the battle in progress behind Cal's eyes, as his rational mind fought the instinctual bloodlust that had possessed him. A few, tense minutes passed, during which Boston did not dare move or speak. He felt the snow underneath his head beginning to melt and soak his hair.

"N...no..." Cal said suddenly. With seemingly great effort, he released his grip on Boston's wrist and shoulder, and moved quickly off of the human. "No..." he said again, backing up against the tree he had crashed into minutes prior, looking at Boston in horror and shock. He collapsed against the base of the tree, looking at his own trembling hands. "Monster..."

Boston rose carefully to his feet, his injured ribs and arm groaning in protest. He walked slowly over to where Cal lay slumped, and sat before him, looking into the Hunter's eyes. They were clear again. The Hunter rose his head for a brief second to make eye contact with his friend, and immediately tried to get to his feet. Boston's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back down.

"Monster," Cal growled lowly. "Hurt friend." Boston saw, with mild shock, that there were tears streaming slowly down Cal's face. The Hunter wiped them away impatiently and sniffled.

"You aren't a monster, Cal. You didn't hurt me." It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't a complete lie either. The Hunter had come to his senses before he could inflict serious injury on Boston, or worse, but it was all the same to Cal, it appeared. He was beside himself with guilt after almost brutalizing his closest friend, and although Boston would adamantly deny it, he had to see Cal in a new light. No matter how friendly, compassionate or playful he could be, he was also capable of great violence and sadism.

The Hunter opened his mouth miserably but Boston held up a gloved hand. "Save it," he said suddenly, with a strength and conviction that surprised him and made Cal flinch. "Cal, you're honest with me. You have my back. You care a lot about me. You are what you are, and I don't blame you for that." He took a breath to steady himself and, to the Hunter's shock, took Cal's clawed, blood-stained hand in his own. "And in the short time we've known each other, I've grown some other feelings for you. Strong ones." The Hunter blinked in surprise and Boston blushed furiously. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-" He was cut off as Cal grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled them face to face.

"_Mine_," Cal growled, his eyes a maelstrom of guilt, fear, hope and lust. And before the human could let out a grunt, the Hunter leaned in a few inches further and pressed his lips to Boston's. The kiss wasn't long, nor deep, nor passionate, like Boston remembered seeing in those awful romance movies. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and Boston didn't need much more than that. It was rugged, it was flawed - it was _real. _And when Cal pulled away and their chapped and freezing lips separated, Boston couldn't do anything besides gape.

After recovering from the surprise and assuring the worried Cal that he was not hurt, the two began the trek back to the cabin. The Hunter Cal had been hiding in a cave, Cal had managed to communicate through his limited use of words, supplemented with body language and simple yes/no questions from Boston. It had been out searching for food when Cal had jumped it, high on the rediscovered thrill of leaping freely and exerting himself. His instincts, reawakened from the sudden excursion, had taken control upon seeing the weakened prey.

"You let down the wall," Tom said that night as Boston and Cal huddled around the fireplace. The Smoker lay sprawled on the sofa with a thick blanket covering his body, his tongue draped lazily across his sharp face as he eyed the pair. "Every rationally-minded infected subconsciously puts up a mental wall to prevent the primal urge to kill from taking over your mind. It usually takes a stimulus to bring down. In this case, it was your sudden return to activity. Your burgeoning feelings for Boston didn't help." The Hunter hid his face awkwardly as Boston looked at him curiously.

"Yeah. He loves you alright. Or should I say 'likes'? Since this whole situation seems to be progressing further into seventh grade drama by the minute, should I just phrase things that way? And by the way, can you believe those shoes Jessica wore last Thursday?" Tom clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Goddamned Jessica. Anyways, yeah. You two are so painfully awkward around each other that it causes me physical discomfort."

Boston turned to look at the Smoker, cocking an eyebrow. "And you're the master of romance?"

Tom shrugged, a difficult thing to do while laying on your side. "When you can find me a woman without twelve-inch spikes for fingers, I'll show you how it works." He looked at Boston, eyeing him up and down. "And are you sure Cal didn't hurt you? A Hunter in a blood frenzy generally shreds first and asks questions later."

Boston gingerly flexed his newly un-splinted arm, wincing in pain as the underused muscle protested at the extension. "I'm fine. I might have a bruised rib or two, but I'm alright," he added quickly as Cal let out a low, guilty moan.

Tom gave him a suspicious glance but left it at that. "Anyways, to prevent...that...from happening again, Cal, you need to maintain constant activity. Every day, at least an hour of physical action. Hunt some animals, scout the area for hostile infected. But if you just laze around, you're a ticking time bomb. The last thing we need in a time of crisis is you going off and trying to kill one of us."

Boston could practically feel the shame radiating off of his companion. He hated the way Tom had phrased it, but he was right. Another outburst like that could seriously endanger the trio. And although Boston would never, ever tell him, Cal _was_ a beast. He could control it well enough, but he was a Hunter, a primal force of nature and violence. If he ever snapped, he would have to be put down for the safety of both Boston and Tom.

"I think I've forced you two to rethink the foundation of your friendship enough for tonight," the Smoker said, his usual blunt tone tempered by drowsiness. He rolled over, turning his face away from Boston and Cal, and the pair rose. They hesitated for a moment at the entrance to the hallway, before Boston grabbed the Hunter by the wrist and led him into Boston's bedroom. The two collapsed on the bed, laying side by side. Cal sighed and rolled over, facing the wall. Boston felt the Hunter tense up as he wrapped his arms around Cal's waist, gently pulling him closer until he could lay his head against his companion's back and hear his breathing.

They lay there for a while, Boston running his fingers through the Hunter's black hair, Cal letting out an occasional sigh of contentment. Though the day had been heavy with action and revelations, things were beginning to look up for the future. Cal would have himself fully under control again in a few days, aligning perfectly with Tom's pre-planned venture into town for some supplies to last them through the rest of winter. The day would come soon, and with it, a return to the shattered reality of the world as it was now. But for the first time in God knew how long, Boston accepted it. He would face the world alongside Tom, his blunt and knowledgeable new friend and ally, and Cal, his companion, partner, guardian and...lover.

Things were going to work out.

* * *

**I should just stick to writing violence. Romance escapes me.**

**The angst, gritty violence and adventure will return very soon, which should satisfy those of you that don't like reading things without an actual plot. Which is an entirely understandable opinion.**

**Please review if you can! Critique, praise, anything is lovely. It's what inspires me to write more!**


	7. Chapter 7

Boston awoke the next morning with a violent introduction to the bedroom floor.

He grunted in confusion as his sore body hit the hardwood, and it took him a few seconds to register that he was moving. "Whasgoinon?" he slurred. Boston was being towed briskly down the hallway by a slick, strong tentacle wrapped around his ankle. He began struggling a little, to preserve a bit of his dignity if nothing else, but the tongue pulsed around his foot and he groaned.

"Quit it. I could have dragged you out by the head, you know." The Smoker's back was turned, but his heavy brown jacket and jeans suggested that he had been or was going to go outside. Even in his half-asleep state, Boston thought that was odd. It had been the Smoker who had given Cal the task of ensuring the woods were clear of the infected, and the Hunter, who was still curled up peacefully in the master bedroom, hadn't done any ensuring yet. "Before you ask," the Smoker said, his words slightly slurred by the tongue protruding from his mouth, "We're going out. Both of us. You need some training on how to deal with the infected before we skip merrily into town in a few days."

Tom pulled the drowsy human into the den and opened up a large wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. "Get dressed." He pointed with one hand toward the sofa, where Boston's winter clothes and boots lay in a pile. He dressed slowly to both delay the inevitable humiliation that would come with Tom's "training", and to avoid aggravating his sore and bruised body. Tom's sharp, harsh voice snapped him out of his miserable reverie.

"I said, what's your preferred weapon?" the Smoker said, sighing as Boston looked at him blankly.

"Oh, uh...I had a shotgun, back in Kansas, so I guess-" Boston was cut off as the Smoker tossed a long gun indifferently over his shoulder. Boston caught it in his outstretched arms, and looked at the Smoker in surprise. "You have guns here? And you want to practice with a live shotgun? And did you just throw a shotgun at me?"

Tom put his hands up in mock guilt. "I don't like to give away all my secrets. And it shoots paint. Do you honestly think I would let you shoot actual bullets at me? Jesus Christ, you are hopeless sometimes..." He chuckled softly to himself and opened the door, scowling as the cold morning air washed over him. "I'll be outside. Finish getting yourself ready and move your ass." On that encouraging note, the door slammed shut.

Boston looked down at the weapon in his hands. The shotgun wasn't too different from his old Remington. It was long and single-barreled, and its dark green paint was chipped in some places, but it felt relatively good in his hands. He shouldered the gun and pulled open the door, shivering as the wind hit him.

He had just opened his mouth to call for Tom when something wet and powerful shot down and wrapped around his throat.

He dropped the shotgun in surprise and brought his hands up to the tongue, trying in vain to pry it away. He gasped and choked as it tightened, and any shouts for help died away as the muscle got tighter and tighter around his neck, closing off his ability to breathe. He struggled in silence as the tongue began to retract and he was pulled to the tips of his toes, dangling helplessly. Tears streamed from his eyes and his arms fell limply to his side as the unseen Smoker slowly asphyxiated him. He felt the too-familiar sensation of his hearing and vision beginning to blur and fade. He thought of Cal, and of Tom, as he felt his life begin to ebb.

Wait, where was Tom?

The pressure on his throat suddenly vanished and Boston fell to his hands and knees, shaking and retching blood into the snow. He heard something heavy land a few feet away, but could not bring himself to look. He finally collapsed on his side, looking up shamefully into the face of his attacker.

"Pitiful," Tom sighed, shaking his head. "Absolutely pitiful. It's a wonder you survived alone as long as you did."

The Smoker grabbed Boston by the front of his coat and dragged his limp frame back through the front door, putting him on the couch none too gently.

"This is the apocalypse," Tom said, facing the fire with his arms crossed and his back to Boston. "Expect to be ambushed. Expect for the infected to be on the other side of every door, around every corner, and on every rooftop. Always be prepared."

He turned and gave Boston a pointed look. His tongue hung down the front of his coat like a morbid necktie. "We start again in fifteen minutes. Get it together."

* * *

**Ugh. Feel free to hate me, I understand. I procrastinated and the deadline I set for myself came up far too quickly.**

**For the record, I plan to update each weekend, hopefully with long, meaningful chapters, full of imagery and wonder and bullshit like that. This weekend has been kinda hectic, but I don't want to make excuses for myself. I failed you guys and I apologize.**

**Let me know what you think about the set update schedule in the review section or through a PM to me, and feel free to pack it full of mean names. It's what I get.**


	8. Chapter 8

Boston used the allotted fifteen minutes to try and steady himself, and to form a plan. Tom was right. The infected were sneaky and clever. He never should have made the mistake of letting his guard down when he knew there was something out there - he had gotten used to the cozy nights in the cabin. Boston had gone from living day by day, scavenging food and water when he could, sleeping in the corners of abandoned buildings or cars parked on lonely country roads, to sleeping in a warm bed, eating a mix of what Cal could hunt and what Tom already had saved. Boston's survival instincts had weakened from the weeks of being settled down, and he was a definite liability if the three ever faced a combat scenario.

Boston knew that Tom was arrogant. Smart, but arrogant. If the Smoker's rooftop ambush strategy had worked once, it was likely that he would try it again. Boston never had been much good at planning ahead, especially in a world where plans tended to go to shit anyway, so he settled for hoping that on the second run, he would come up with something on the spot.

He tried, as best he could, to steel himself. He wrenched open the wooden door quickly and spun to the side as a strong, whip-like tongue flew past, wrapping around a floor lamp like a python. The Smoker appeared in the doorway, his face covered in a bored expression that quickly turned to surprise as he realized what he had snagged. Boston dashed forward into point blank range and took aim with the shotgun, but Tom quickly reeled his tongue in, sending the lamp soaring toward Boston, who dove to the side. The human quickly flipped around and took aim at the Smoker's retreating form, but he was gone in a flash.

Boston took a ragged breath and gripped his gun. The Smoker was quick, but Boston had just as much help from the element of surprise as Tom did. There was no such thing as a standalone fight - whoever got the drop on the other would be the victor. Boston had to think two steps ahead of the Smoker, who would be trying to do the same thing. It was a game of cat and mouse where neither role was assigned.

As he edged closer to the open door and stepped over the shattered lamp, Boston's mind was working furiously. He began thinking of possible ambush sites where the Tom may have been lying in wait, and ways to counterattack safely. He walked slowly through the open door, bowing his head slightly as the cold breeze blew into the house. He wondered vaguely if Cal was a light sleeper.

The momentary distracted thought lowered Boston's guard substantially - the tongue was tightened around his throat before he had even fully stepped out onto the porch.

Boston felt the terribly familiar sensation of being asphyxiated and pulled upward, and realized that his prediction had been correct. The Smoker had returned to his first ambush tactic that had served him so well, but this time, Boston was able to see it coming. The tongue began to tighten as it reeled him in, and Boston let out a choked noise as his neck stretched awkwardly, but he remained calm. As the tongue began pulling in earnest, trying to get him airborne, Boston grabbed the slick tentacle with one hand and pulled his feet up, bracing his heavy snow boots against the wall of the cabin. He pushed away with all his might and swung like a pendulum away from the cabin, aiming the shotgun as best he could with one arm as Tom's crouching figure came into view on the roof. The Smoker looked up in utter shock and Boston squeezed the trigger.

A hefty projectile of scarlet paint erupted from the barrel of the gun and slammed into Tom's chest, exploding violently and covering the front of his bomber jacket. The impact jarred the Smoker's lanky frame and threw him back against the roof, sending a tremor through his tongue that Boston could feel as it released him. Tom attempted to scramble over the roof but Boston was quick on the draw. Another scarlet ball struck Tom in the back of the knee, and he rolled gracelessly off the roof and landed in a heap in the snow.

Boston walked over to his downed friend, holding the paint gun warily. Tom, face down in the snow, let out a muffled groan and flipped over onto his back. The snow where he had landed was covered in scarlet paint, and his jacket hadn't fared much better. The Smoker's eyes narrowed as Boston neared.

"You win this round, you little..." he hissed, and reluctantly grabbed onto Boston's outstretched hand. Boston hauled his adversary to his feet, waited a few moments as Tom began inspecting his ruined jacket, and promptly aimed the paint gun at Tom's face. The Smoker's hands shot into the air and he took a step back. "What the hell do you think-"

"I was told," Boston said, hiding his amusement, "to never trust an enemy. Turn your ass around and march." The Smoker turned and protested indignantly when Boston pressed the barrel of the gun into his back, but began walking. Boston led him up the few stairs onto the porch and turned him to face away from the cabin. "On your knees." Tom did as he was asked, falling to his knees with a melodramatic flourish. "Any last words, scum?"

"Please sir!" the Smoker said dramatically. "I have a wife and four Cockney children at home! Who will provide for them?"

"Not my problem." Boston said simply, and he squeezed the trigger. Paint exploded painfully against the back of the Smoker's head, and he fell onto his face with an exaggerated howl of anguish. He lay there, paint dribbling off his head and onto the porch.

Snickering laughter sounded behind them from the doorway, and Boston whirled around, his face matching the new color of Tom's jacket when he beheld the speaker. Cal stood in the doorway in a white bathrobe that must have belonged to someone in Tom's family. The robe was open, and Cal was wearing nothing but a pair of dark green boxer-briefs that hugged his hips in horribly arousing ways. The Hunter noticed Boston staring and grinned, showing his pointed teeth.

Tom had gotten to his feet and coughed conspicuously. "I think it's time we all get ready. We're heading into town in about...oh, two hours. Don't look at me like that, Boston. Go get your shit together." With that, he trudged off into the snowy woods toward a nearby creek that the trio used to wash clothes. Boston and Cal, now alone, looked at each other. Boston moved first, laying the gun against the door frame and wrapping his arms around the Hunter, who growled somewhat reservedly and embraced Boston as well. The human's covered hands found their way inside the robe, and Cal let out a low noise as the gloved fingers traced their way down his back, culminating in a yelp as Boston gave a sharp yank on the waistband of his underpants. The human chuckled as Cal playfully scratched at his arm, and they both headed inside to prepare themselves.

Neither noticed the distant smoke rising from the town below.

* * *

**TOO MANY IRL THINGS TO DO _**

**As compensation, I plan for a new chapter to be released by Friday. Hopefully longer than the previous ones.**

**Review if you can, please, and thank you to my returning readers. You guys are the bomb! ;3**


	9. Chapter 9

_"There is a monster in all of us." - Vladimir, the Crimson Reaper_

* * *

"Are you...sure about this?" Boston asked, his arms and legs wrapped tightly around Cal, who rested placidly on all fours in the snow outside Tom's cabin. The Hunter didn't seem to be bothered by the extra weight, and was occupying himself by attempting to scrawl various English words in the snow with his pointed index claw. Boston, on the other hand, was rather uncomfortable. The awkward position he was in was both physically uncomfortable and frankly, embarrassing; he didn't mind being close to Cal, but not when around...other people.

"I don't see any other way, do you?" snorted Tom, seated atop an old cherry red snowmobile. The Smoker had disguised himself masterfully with an intricately interlocking net of black and white scarves that stretched from beneath his nose down into his spare black bomber jacket. He was now indistinguishable from an uninfected human.

Cal, on the other hand, presented an issue. The Hunter could hide his fangs well enough by keeping his mouth closed, and he lacked the crimson eyes that were common to his brethren, but his deadly claws could only be realistically covered by gloves, which would render him nearly unarmed. Tom had settled on allowing the Hunter to keep his hands unrestricted, but they were to be kept in the pockets of his jacket at all times. Cal had acquiesced.

"Let's go over the plan one more time," Tom said as he wrapped his long fingers around the snowmobile's throttle and brake. "I'm going to head east and take the trail down until I'm about half a mile outside the city limits. You two will follow me. Just follow the tracks, and try not to raise too much noise. Stay as low as possible, Cal. That forest is in full view of the town below." When the Hunter nodded, Tom inhaled deeply behind the net of scarves and looked around the snowy glade. "We should be back here in a few hours tops. Barring a vengeful act of God, nothing should go wrong. I hope." With that, the Smoker twisted the throttle and the snowmobile swerved off between the trees with a mechanical rumble that quickly tapered off.

Boston felt Cal adjust his body into a crouch. "So, are we just follow after him or-"

Anything that remained of that sentence was lost to the wind as Cal sprung, flying effortlessly through the cold afternoon air. Boston immediately pressed his head down against Cal's back to both protect his windburned face and to keep himself from yelling in fear. He squeezed around Cal, holding on for dear life, and let out a surprised yelp when the Hunter landed with a jarring impact against the side of a tall pine tree. He heard Cal chuckle lowly before springing again, gliding with his arms outstretched before landing flat against the side of another tree. The two repeated this process of leaping and landing as they made their way down the mountain. After a few silent minutes, apart from some guttural grunts and yelps, the town of Jackson came into view in the valley below.

Boston gasped and Cal stifled an instinctual screech.

A thick column of black smoke rose from what appeared to be a massive bonfire in the center of the main street. Soldiers in dirty and torn uniforms holding makeshift weapons patrolled about, some dragging fuel from a nearby pile onto the fire, some talking with their heads bowed, others simply standing guard in front of various buildings.

Then the smell hit them, and Boston very nearly retched. The air reeked of rot and burning flesh, and the further they got down the mountain, the worse the smell got. Cal suddenly dove to the side and landed hard on the snow behind a particularly large tree, blocking the town from sight. Boston dared to raise his head, and locked eyes with the sharp-featured Smoker, crouching in front of them.

"I'm guessing you smell that, too." Tom said, raising his eyebrows as Boston visibly gagged. "It's that fire. Disgusting..."

Boston pulled the collar of his jacket over his nose in a vain attempt to ignore the stench. "You mean that bonfire? What bonfire smells like death and decay?"

Tom shook his head, sighing through his scarves. "That isn't a bonfire. Look again."

Boston peered around the edge of the tree trunk and felt his blood run cold. Tom was right: the "bonfire" was a massive pile of burning bodies. The fuel being added to the flames were more corpses, being dragged carelessly along carelessly by the ragged-looking soldiers and tossed onto the pile without a second thought. Boston's hand went to his belt, toward the hunting knife Tom had given him before they had left the cabin, and he clenched the handle so hard that his hand shook.

"This changes a lot of things, but not everything," Tom said, straightening up slightly. He spared a glance at Cal, who was indifferently occupying himself by trying to write words in the snow again, before continuing. "We still need food, water, clothing, and weapons if possible. We just have to avoid the possibly insane militia." He nudged Cal in the side with the toe of his ski boot and checked around the side of the tree. "Follow me. There's a little store just over yonder that, hopefully, should be empty. Move."

They made their way slowly into the city limits, sticking to the shadows of the old buildings and staying out of sight. A few minutes later they reached the shop, a humble wooden building just at the edge of town that reminded Boston of Tom's cabin. Tom gave the bronze knob an experimental twist and tried to shoulder the door open, but it needed no coercing; it was unlocked and appeared to have seen recent use. If Tom found this strange he hid it well, and the three stepped quietly inside.

The exterior of the store had been misleading. Inside, the building seemed bigger, and there were several aisles stocked with everything from canned foods to various clothing items. The linoleum floor was covered in a layer of dust, and the meager sunlight filtering in through the filthy windows illuminated the various particles floating through the air. Boston looked out of the corner of his eye and noticed Cal wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Tom exhaled audibly. "Thank God. Grab what you can get and let's get out of here. Something about this place feels...odd."

They each grabbed a small shopping basket and began piling things in. Boston went immediately for the clothes section; the winter months had to end sooner or later and Boston had nothing but heavy wear. He filled his basket with a couple of t-shirts and jeans, as well as a spare coat in case something happened to his current one. He had just begun making his way toward the canned food to meet back up with Tom and Cal when he heard something.

There were curious, muffled noises coming from the back of the store. Boston stepped around the corner and looked at Tom in alarm, and the Smoker narrowed his eyes. He slowly set his basket down on the floor, and the others did the same. Then he gave a quick head motion toward the source of the sounds.

Tom lead them as quietly as possible through the aisles, every now and then pausing to try and pinpoint the location of the noises. They reached the end of the final aisle and the eyes of all three settled on the steel door in the corner marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY". The noises were clearer now. The three approached the door with the utmost caution. Boston swallowed and pressed his ear against the cold metal, as did Cal and Boston.

_"-don't tell us where they are, we're going to have to force it out of you. You know that."_

The first voice was cold and cruel, and the speaker seemed to relish in the pain he was causing his victim.

_"Let me get him again, Sergeant. I'll make it a good one."_

The second voice was gruff and brutish. Boston imagined it was how a Charger would sound if it could speak, and he shivered a bit at the thought.

_"No! Please! No more, no more..."_

Tom bristled next to Boston, who looked over and was taken aback by the hatred and rage in the Smoker's face. The third voice was quivery, desperate, and full of pain. The words were spoken thickly, and Boston's hand went unconsciously to his knife again.

_"What a shame, what a shame. Get him again, Private. The sooner he talks, the sooner we can get out of this goddamned town."_

There was a horrible scream of pain from behind the door, and Boston saw something in Tom's mind snap. His normally hard brown eyes had clouded over, and his expression had twisted into something primal and enraged.

_"Wait, STOP! I know that...that there's a cabin. A..a few miles up the mountain. There's been reports of a Hunter up there. That's all I know, I swear...that's all I know..."_

The eyes of all three went wide.

_"There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Good work, Private. To anyone available, we have information on a Hunter in a cabin on the mountain, a few miles up. Burn it down, flush him out. Over. I think we're done here, Private. Get rid of him and let's go take care of that cabin."_

The poor man let out a pitiful wail and Tom snapped. With a bellow he lifted his heavy leather boot and slammed the sole into the metal door with inhuman power, smashing it off its hinges.

The storage room was cramped and filthy. The tortured man, bruised and bloody and laying twisted on the floor in a filthy shopkeeper's uniform, didn't move. Two soldiers stood just in front of where the door had been, one thin, red-headed and short, the other quite stocky and shaved bald. Both could only stare with wide eyes as the enraged Smoker swung his tongue through the air, coming down like a whip across the stronger one's face and knocking him to the ground with a cry of pain. Tom wheeled on the Sergeant before he could reach for his gun, wrapping his muscular tongue around his prey's neck and severing his spine with a brutal twist. As the Sergeant lay dead and the Private lay incapacitated, Tom turned, grabbing Cal and Boston by the collars and dragging them briskly out of the store.

"We need to get out of here. Out of the town." Cal and Boston shared a look of unease. Tom never turned to look back at them as he led them out of the store, and his voice was still tinged with anger and fury. Boston would never have imagined that Tom could act so violently, especially without being personally provoked. It was frightening to see the usually lighthearted Tom become so full of rage.

A small dirt path led around the store to a small parking lot. It was emptied out except for a single, grey Lincoln parked askew in the center of the lot. It was in pristine condition, save for the falling snow that had piled on top of it. Tom was still striding forward when Cal let out a sharp hiss, darting forward and throwing his arm out in front of the Smoker.

"What? What is it?" Tom demanded, his direct demeanor a startling departure from his usual, teasing attitude.

"Listen..." Cal said lowly. Boston strained his ears, and beneath the whisper of the wind, for the second time that day, he heard muffled sobs. He turned to look at Tom, whose face had changed from anger and determination to horror. Cal sniffed the air, his steel-colored eyes narrowing. "No time. They come."

Tom swallowed. "Alright. I'm going to open the door, and when she lunges at me, Boston, come in with the knife. Cal, stay on the lookout for soldiers." Cal growled the affirmative and Boston gripped the handle of the knife so hard that he felt it imprinting the skin beneath his gloves. "Alright...let's go."

Tom edged toward the door of the luxury car, gripped the polished handle in his gloved hand, and swung the door open. Before Tom could shout, the Witch was on top of him. The creature was thin and emaciated-looking, a soggy grey tee hanging off its bony shoulders and a pair of shorts wrapped loosely around her its hips. Most disturbingly, its fingers were elongated into foot-long talons, which it was currently poised to plunge into Tom's chest. Boston broke into a sprint, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and slammed shoulder first into the Witch, knocking it to the side with a wild cry. The beast rose again and charged Boston, hands outstretched - until a muscular tongue wrapped around her ankle and sent her face first into the snow. The Witch screamed in rage as Boston dove forward, drawing the knife and planting it in her back to the hilt.

Cal began to snarl; the soldiers were getting closer. "Check her pockets! Quickly!" Tom said urgently, already on his way to the driver's side of the Lincoln. Boston fished around in the corpse's shorts and came away with a shiny key, which he tossed over the roof to Tom. "Get in!"

Boston wrenched open the passenger's side door and hopped into the seat, while Cal practically threw himself into the backseat. The interior of the car was incredibly luxurious, and Boston wished he had more time to appreciate it, but Tom turned the key and the engine sprang to life with a hearty growl. The Smoker stomped on the gas just as the soldiers came into view in the rear view mirror.

As their home burned in the mountains above, and gunshots rang out behind them, Boston, Cal, and Tom rode out of Jackson, Wyoming in a stolen Lincoln luxury car.

* * *

**/sigh.**

**I wish I had more time for these things, I really do. I straight up skipped my Friday deadline, and I'm not entirely happy with the way this chapter turned out. Forgive me if I take a few extra days when posting from now on, I'd really like to post content that I feel completely happy with.**

**Oh well. Review if you could, and thanks for reading!**


End file.
